Intermezzo: Inferno
by Sentimental Star
Summary: **COMPLETE** Sherlock's first arson case after the Hiatus results in an injured John and some hard truths for Sergeant Sally Donovan...EDIT: EPILOGUE: "A Deux" has been posted! (Intense Friendshipfic. Post-Reichenbach Reunion. TW-Suicide Ideation.)
1. Inferno

_**Disclaimer:**_ I own nothing in this marvelous universe; it all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Moffat, and Gatiss.

_**Author's Note:**_ Originally, I'd intended this to be another chapter in _Intermezzo_. It's still part of that series and takes place during that timeframe, but I really wanted to give this thread its own story ::grins::. This may well go on for a few chapters—although, since I have most of it planned out, it should hopefully not take quite as long to post each section, particularly with winter break coming up! I also may write a sequel to this, a sort of reverse of the situation below—I hope you enjoy it!

_**Rating:**_ T (for language)

_**Summary:**_ Sherlock's first arson case after the Hiatus results in an injured John and some hard truths for Sergeant Sally Donovan…(Intense Friendshipfic. Post-Reichenbach Reunion.)

"_**Speech"**_

_**Personal Thoughts/Memories (Italics)**_

_.:Intermezzo: Inferno:._

_By Sentimental Star_

IOIOIOIOIOI

_**inferno:**__ a very large and dangerous fire_

IOIOIOIOIOI

"_JOHN!_"

Grating and rough, the cry of his name disappeared into the flaps of his jacket, swallowed by leather and the pained cry torn from his own throat.

Sherlock scrambled to extricate himself from underneath John as the sky erupted in color and flame above them, shoving frantically (and ineffectually) at the soldier's chest.

John remained rather firmly on top of him, gritting his teeth against the blaze of agony shooting through his carpal bones where a piece of burning debris had collided with his wrist only moments prior: "Sorry, not losing you today," he muttered into Sherlock's hair.

"_John-!_"

The detective's wild objection went heard, but unheeded.

Snarling under his breath as he fought the pain threatening to consume him, John bit down on his cheek and yanked Sherlock under a relatively intact stone arch.

As soon as they reached its momentary sanctuary, Sherlock gathered his strength and thrust himself out from underneath John.

Untrusting of their temporary shelter, but realistic enough to know when he had lost the fight, John finally let him go.

"You _idiot_!" Sherlock snapped, seizing the wounded limb with a tenderness that belied his tone.

"I'm fine, Sherlock, it's just a-"

"—Severe wrist fracture that you _may or may not_ have exacerbated by pulling me under cover!"

John's eyebrow lifted, "Who's the doctor here, Sherlock?"

"Shut up and hold it perfectly still!" the detective snarled.

With a sigh, John held his arm straight, jumping slightly when Sherlock immediately tore several strips of fabric from the bottom of his shirt, even as a chaos of heat and soot erupted from their left, causing the doctor to flinch towards his best friend. "Really, Sherlock," he tried to protest, attempting to ignore a bright flare of pain as his arm jostled, "you don't have to-"

"I _said_, shut _up_!"

John blinked, watching bemusedly as the detective aligned two pieces of wooden shrapnel with his injured wrist and tied them off with the strips he'd torn from his shirt, thereby fashioning a crude splint. Sherlock's scarf went around his arm and got knotted behind his neck. A moment later, his arm settled gently against his chest.

John blinked again, glancing down at his arm, before meeting the keen gaze that traced his form and muttering, "When did you learn triage?"

Stripping off his Belstaff coat, Sherlock did not answer at first. Instead, he tossed it around John's shoulders and pulled it snugly around the doctor's lightly shivering form. "Cold," the younger man murmured urgently, tugging it closed, "are you cold?"

"Sherlock…" John shook his head, his uninjured hand coming up to cover the larger ones fluttering wildly across his chest.

The detective ignored him, jerking his hands free and allowing his fingers to fly up to John's neck, searching frantically for what, John realized a moment later, was his pulse, "And you're not-?"

"_Sherlock_."

Agitated violinist's hands stilled, and John squeezed them, bringing their palms down to his chest, "For God's sake, I'm _fine_," he muttered. "Where…when did you learn triage? I certainly never taught you-"

Pure disbelief colored Sherlock's face, "You narrowly avoided third degree burns, and _that_ is what you are worried about?"

John shrugged his left shoulder, keeping the right one (attached to his fractured wrist) still, "It is not the first time I've been near an explosion. I am sure it won't be the last," he attempted a smile, "not with the places we'll run around."

Sherlock fell (miraculously) silent. "…You don't have to," he whispered at last, his eyes falling to rest on their hands, still pressed against John's chest where the sturdy heart beat under his fingertips.

The doctor's mouth fell open. For several endless minutes silence spiraled out between them, before John finally managed, "Sorry…_what_? Did you I just hear you say-"

"You did," Sherlock murmured. His gaze dropped to the ground.

Therefore, he missed John's abrupt scowl. He assuredly did not miss, however, the hand that suddenly grasped his chin and yanked it up with all the tenderness its owner could muster.

The detective's eyes flew wide, "_John_?"

"…You _idiot_!" the older man growled. "Nothing in this world—_or_ the next, if you believe in such things—could prevent me from following after you."

Sherlock opened his mouth to object, but before John could follow a more drastic route of persuasion, blue lights and wailing sirens pierced through the flame-painted, midnight air.

IOIOIOIOIOI

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade had long ago determined that whoever believed Sherlock Holmes's sociopath claim was a Class A idiot.

Certainly, they'd never seen him with an injured John Watson (hell, _Lestrade_ had never really seen him with an injured John Watson). And those who rightfully _should _have seen it, deliberately chose to ignore it, or otherwise proved so ridiculously oblivious to it that Lestrade worried about the validity of their observation skills.

As fire streaked London's nighttime sky in front of them, Lestrade gently grabbed his second-in-command by her shoulder and firmly redirected her towards the paramedics, "Secure the area. Whatever happens, do _not_ let them separate Sherlock and John."

Sergeant Sally Donovan fixed him with a look of pure disbelief, "You _cannot_ be serious!"

Lestrade bit back an impatient scowl, _Deliberate blindness, then_. "Sergeant, _your post_," he retorted severely, before breaking off his glare and swirling away towards a cache of firefighters that had just arrived on the scene.

Scowling fiercely, and in no mood to hide it (at bloody _1AM_, no less), Sally Donovan whirled around and stalked towards the ambulance parked at the edge of the crime scene.

IOIOIOIOIOI

The doctor saw her first, reading the unmitigated fury, and deeper, that fury overwritten with utter exhaustion, with a swiftness and an ease that would have made his detective counterpart righteously proud were it not for the fact that every shred of the younger man's considerable focus had locked on to his flat mate's (relatively minor) injury.

John made to stand, intent on intercepting her and averting any possible damage to his best friend's admittedly fragile (at the moment) psyche. Sherlock quickly put an end to that notion, immediately pressing a hand down on the older man's uninjured shoulder; ironically, the one that, four years earlier, had seen a bullet put through it.

"Stay still, John."

If Sherlock's actions had not prevented the ex-Army doctor from standing, then his voice surely would—subdued, with a trembling edge that threatened to crack at any moment.

John sat, glancing up sharply at his flat mate, "Sherlock?" he asked softly.

The detective merely shook his head, pivoting to face the livid presence at his back. John noted that Sherlock's hand, despite his intention not to attempt standing again, remained firmly where the younger man had placed it.

"Problem, Sergeant Donovan?"

Dear Lord, was John the only one who heard the near-silence of the question? The shaking that Sherlock attempted to hide with the question's nearly inaudible volume?

"You keep your pet doctor on a short leash, Freak."

Apparently so.

John felt Sherlock stiffen, his grip tightening painfully on the older man's shoulder. Valiantly, said doctor tried to still a wince.

"I do not see why that should be of any concern to you."

Again, the barely-there-whisper concealed the much stronger emotions roiling beneath the surface of his decidedly _not_ sociopathic friend's voice. Steel lined the younger man's tone, but Sergeant Donovan seemed utterly deaf to it tonight.

"_Hah_! It just proves my point—you don't _have_ friends, Freak, certainly not when you treat them like _this_. Tell me, did you jump because you couldn't bear our _humanity_ any longer…or are you so pathetically unlovable that you decided to rid humanity of your existence?"

John barely bit back a snarl, "That's rich, you delusional-!"

"John, _shut __up__!_"

Stunned, mutinous, John whipped his head up to glare at his best friend (and bit back a pained groan in the process), "_Sherlock_-!"

"Yes, yes, it's all horribly untrue and completely unfounded—I _know_, John, but let me fix this my way, and for the love of God, _be quiet_."

John's jaw shut with a snap, holding back a string of (most likely, completely impolite) suggestions as to what Sally Donovan could do with her…deductions.

Sherlock's hand shifted to curl around John's shoulder, squeezing gently as he wordlessly thanked him for the sentiment, but his eyes never left the woman's, even as it became apparent that she'd let her mouth run away from her. Her eyes widened slightly with panic, obviously aware she had overstepped a boundary, but unwilling to take back her words, in spite of the fact that she surely knew what would come next.

Sherlock's impossibly accurate deductions had only grown more accurate in his absence, but he made no comment about the very apparent fact that the uniform she wore was not her own, nor the fact that it was ill-suited to the weather, as if she had left someplace in quite a hurry—someplace that was, quite obviously, not her own flat. Instead, he merely surveyed her coolly, for several tense, unending minutes. "You know nothing of _love_, Sergeant Donovan," he replied at last, voice a scarce murmur. "How could you, when you've never had someone _worthy_ of love?"

That wasn't pity. _Surely_ that wasn't pity John heard in the misanthropic detective's voice.

…But apparently it was, as Sergeant Donovan flushed a deep, humiliated red. "What would _you_ know of love, Freak?" she spat out. "How are you in _any_ way worthy of what others apparently aren't?"

John sensed the steel that entered Sherlock's spine long before the detective's actual response, "I have no idea," he retorted tightly, abruptly releasing John to march off into the blustery cold of the November night.

IOIOIOIOIOI

"Oh, _well done_, Sally!" the doctor growled in Sherlock's wake.

Sergeant Donovan scowled at him, "It's not _my_ fault the Freak's in a pissy mood!"

John's expression hardened. "Really? Because last I checked, _Sherlock_ wasn't the one who decided that the inconvenient hour and bloody uncomfortable weather were cause enough to harangue a civilian."

Sally scoffed, a bitter edge to her laughter, "Like he gives a damn."

"More than you know," John remarked softly, turning to observe the suit-clad form standing several yards away, hunched against the wind. He hugged the Belstaff coat (still around his shoulders) closer still, in the absence of its owner.

When Sally snorted derisively, the doctor grit his teeth, turning to face her, "You know, I used to wonder why Sherlock seemed so utterly convinced he was incapable of emotion. Now I see why."

"Why the _hell_ are you defending him?" Sally demanded, shoving her fists onto her hips. "He played _dead_ for three years, and didn't do a single bloody thing to convince you otherwise!"

John's eyes flashed, "And _you_ headed up a bloody _witch hunt_ three years ago! What the hell _else _was he supposed to do?!"

"Don't you _dare_ try to pin this on me!"

"I will do what I _damn well please_, Sergeant Donovan. I don't bloody _care_ if you despised him—_you should have known better_!"

"Perhaps I should have," she spat out between clenched teeth, "or perhaps I wasn't that far off the mark."

"Is that what you told Lestrade, when he had to forfeit his job? Or Mycroft when he reinstated it? Is that what you told Mrs. Hudson when you had to take her statement? Because I see that logic falling through within seconds of your initial questioning."

Donovan glanced away. John couldn't find it in himself to feel any remorse, "Hit a nerve, have I?" he retorted, unrelenting.

The woman flinched at the soft steel lining his voice. Her shoulders slumped, "Why did you take him back?" she asked finally, voice low.

John relaxed out of his battle stance, sitting back in the ambulance, and regarded her mildly, carelessly shrugging his good shoulder, "Perhaps because I love him?"

Sally Donovan's jaw dropped. "_What_?" she sputtered.

John arched an eyebrow, "Problem, Sergeant Donovan?"

(And no, that _wasn't_ a deliberate echo of Sherlock's earlier questioning.)

"Him? Love _him_?"

John shrugged again. "Of course."

As Sergeant Donovan seemed incapable of speech, John huffed a small laugh, "Really, Sally? We're _really_ going through this?"

Completely and utterly flummoxed, the woman spluttered, "W-_Why the hell would you_?"

The doctor bit back a snort. He supposed to an outsider (or to someone as completely oblivious as Donovan), little reason existed for him to love the self-proclaimed, sociopathic detective: he left body parts in the fridge and scoured London's very worst dregs in search of serial killers, shot up walls when bored, and played violin at 3:00 AM.

Were they even to come into the flat, and spend a day there, even a week there, it would only reinforce the idea that John was absolutely barking mad.

They did not see the little concessions Sherlock made on John's behalf—Bach or Beethoven instead of caterwauling at 3AM, fingers in the fridge instead of heads, and complete and utter devotion to the doctor's health, well-being, and safety.

Was it really so hard to see why John loved him?

"I doubt you'd understand," he remarked softly.

She surveyed him testily, "Try me, Doctor Watson."

John raised an eyebrow, unperturbed, "Let's clarify a few things then, shall we? Sherlock is _not_ a fake—he is more brilliant than you or I could ever even _hope_ to be. Nor is he anything _other_ than human—in fact, I'd even venture to say that he is the most human man I have ever met. I _have_ said it, in fact. To the gravestone of an entirely remarkable and extraordinary man. You can tell Greg, even though he already knows, that we were lucky."

Sergeant Donovan scowled, clearly not understanding that last little bit and disliking that fact immensely.

John's lips quirked up in a small smile. If she didn't understand, he wasn't about to clarify.

Standing with a wince, the doctor carefully worked out the kinks in his back. When Sergeant Donovan shifted in her place impatiently, John smirked at her, "The real reason why I love him, Sally? When you take a shell of a man, and give him a purpose and a reason for living again, love will naturally follow that course. He is a miracle, and no one—not even the miracle himself—will convince me otherwise."

Cracking another smile, and gingerly adjusting his sling, John turned and marched away, leaving the gaping DS in his wake.

_End Chapter_


	2. Brand

_**Disclaimer:**_ I own nothing in this marvelous universe; it all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Gatiss, and Moffat.

_**Reviewers:**_ All _6_ of you, thank you!

_**Author's Note:**_ Um…::rubs head sheepishly:: aside from taking a completely different route than I had anticipated, you can also take this as pre-slash if you'd like. I hadn't intended to turn this series into a slash piece, but with the direction I'm planning to take this in, I can see how some people might take it that way. I don't really mind, but I also have read some slash pieces between these two (and some platonic/asexual, etc. pieces) that are absolutely fabulous, and I can only hope that this fits up there with them both. One more chapter after this—please enjoy!

_**Rating:**_ T/M (for some darker issues, tw—suicide ideation)

_**Summary:**_ Sherlock's first arson case after the Hiatus results in an injured John and some hard truths for Sergeant Sally Donovan…(Intense Friendshipfic. Post-Reichenbach Reunion.)

"_**Speech"**_

_**Personal Thoughts/Memories (Italics)**_

_.:Intermezzo: Inferno:._

_By Sentimental Star_

**Brand**

IOIOIOIOIOI

_brand:_ a mark burned into the skin

IOIOIOIOIOI

Denying the overwhelming urge she suddenly felt to call after him, Sergeant Sally Donovan watched as John Watson disappeared off into the night in the direction his flat mate had ostensibly gone.

As proud a woman as she considered herself, Sally, in that moment—when Doctor John had left and she stood alone near the ambulance, wincing mentally at the sure reprimand she'd receive from her DI for letting his two favorite consultants go—felt an overwhelming urge to scream and kick something.

This night had not turned out well for her, and the latent guilt she had so methodically tried to suppress in the intervening years between Sherlock Holmes's "suicide" and his reappearance at a crime scene over a month ago, now reared its head again. With such intense ferocity that it was turning her stomach into a liquid-slick and knotted mess.

She had had the dubious pleasure of interacting with Holmes ever since she had come under Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade's command over six years ago. She couldn't say she _knew_ him—no one really _knew_ Holmes, with the possible exception of her boss and, of course, John Watson—but even _she _had to admit that something fundamental had changed in Holmes the moment an ex-Army doctor with a psychosomatic limp and wounded shoulder hobbled (quite literally) into his life.

Bitterly, she conceded that perhaps Doctor John had been right all along—Holmes was brilliant, _bloody_ brilliant, and had always been. You _couldn't_ create the kind of ingenious connections and deductions that Holmes spouted in spades. Nor could you affect the utter ignorance and disdain for social conventions that he flaunted so blatantly. While it always managed to piss her off, nothing about him had ever been anything other than genuine.

Especially not the deeply-seated care he tried (and often failed) to conceal whenever John Watson happened to be in the vicinity. Smiles and laughter were more frequent, explanations more understandable, and that "humanity" Doctor John claimed Holmes indeed possessed was made more apparent whenever the smaller man appeared at a crime scene. _Anyone_ who cared to look would see it, but the trouble was, she _hadn't_ cared. Nor had many others.

At least, she hadn't until tonight, and now that she did, Sally had no idea what to do.

She couldn't apologize. She would rather swallow arsenic (as the perpetrator of tonight's fire apparently had before Scotland Yard could reach him) than admit out loud that she was wrong.

But if she chose to do otherwise, the guilt would eat her alive.

IOIOIOIOIOI

Although the Sergeant's footsteps were hardly silent as she moved to follow him, John did not sense her as he jogged towards Sherlock, fractured wrist notwithstanding. Nor did he feel her eyes on him as he did his best to navigate the cooling debris field in search of his best friend (_of course_ the consulting detective had _moved_).

He even remained oblivious to her presence once he finally found the younger man perched atop the very stone arch they had taken cover under not two and a half hours ago. To be fair, Sherlock did not seem to sense anything amiss, either.

Huffing fondly, John slowed to a stop beneath his best friend, "You git…I am _not_ climbing up there with a broken wrist."

Sherlock emitted a dour hum, "Thought it was a 'just' fracture."

John rolled his eyes, biting back a small smirk, "There isn't a bit of difference, even _you_ know that, Sherlock. In any case, I would rather not receive a _compound_ fracture, if it's all the same to you."

Silence came from above him. Sighing in exasperation, the doctor slumped against the stone at his back, shrugging more deeply into the coat he had kept wrapped around his shoulders as a burst of chill wind hit his side.

"How long are you going to sulk up there?" he called, trying to hide the chatter of his teeth.

"…You can go home, John."

Said older man snorted, "Like hell I will. I've faced enough silent years in that flat, thanks."

A tight hiss reached the doctor's ears, "_John_!"

"All I'm saying is _you're_ what made that flat a home. Therefore, since you'll still be out here, I'm going nowhere until you come with me."

Silence again, and the sound of pebbles shifting. "…Sergeant Donovan seems to think I'm incapable of making anywhere a _home_, John."

John himself quietly shifted, reaching out with his uninjured arm to rest a hand on the booted foot hanging near his head, "And I informed the Sergeant that she is sadly mistaken about that notion. Although, apparently, I've failed to convince you of the same."

A hitched breath from above him made John frown. He gently squeezed the consulting detective's ankle, "Sherlock…?"

"I…I'm not worth this, John. Please, _go home_."

John muffled his groan, "Is this a continuation of that sort-of-not-really-argument we started here three hours ago, Sherlock?"

Stillness fell between them, with very little sound to punctuate it, until, "…Maybe," the consulting detective whispered at last.

"_Sherlock_!" John twisted as much as his protesting body would allow, glaring up into the darkness above him.

"You can't deny you wouldn't have been injured if you hadn't followed me!"

"Of course not-"

"You _see-_"

"I'd be dead."

More than a few pebbles scattered this time, and John deduced—from the cascade of concrete dust and minute rubble he narrowly avoided by sidestepping—that Sherlock had all but toppled from his perch.

"…_What_?" the detective managed, barely catching himself (if a second, smaller cascade was anything to go by).

"You heard me," John shrugged his uninjured shoulder, giving Sherlock's ankle another, smaller squeeze. He took a deep breath, suppressing the urge to rest his forehead against the consulting detective's knee. At least it would have made this next bit a little easier, "I…intended to tell you this a bit…differently, but I…when you met me, Sherlock…I-I was in a bad way. I had been newly discharged from the army—honorably, or so they say. But I…so far as I could see…had lost any purpose or use I might have had in the world. Harry…her drinking had spiraled out of control, and my parents…they had…died…whilst I was overseas. Freak car accident, caused by a drunk driver, ironically enough. Certainly, I had no one waiting for me when I returned. I…I was so alone, and when I met you…Sherlock, I-I owe you so much. Y-You don't even realize how-"

A short, sharp inhale of breath interrupted John midway through, and a yet smaller shower of pebbles and dust seemed to indicate that Sherlock had pressed a hand to his face, "_John._"

His name, so soft, effectively silenced the doctor and prevented him from speaking any further.

Sherlock did not seem to have the same trouble (at least, not immediately), "Y-You…h-how did you…_did _you…?"

A frustrated noise from above him seemed to indicate that Sherlock could not find the right words to express his thoughts.

John's grip on the detective's ankle seemed to tighten minutely, "I did…consider it. The day I met you…I-I had intended to try…pills, that is. The gun…too noticeable, but then Mike spotted me crossing the park, and well…you know the rest."

A shy shrug, and eyes deliberately fixed on a point well away from Sherlock. "Will you come down now?"

Another (rather shaky, as a startled John noted) inhale of breath, and the sound of tiny rocks scattering as Sherlock gingerly withdrew his ankle from the doctor's grip.

Barely a few seconds seemed to pass before there was a quiet thud behind him, and wiry arms wrapped carefully around his waist. Where they had clasped in front of him, Sherlock's fingers started shaking, and before John quite understood what was happening, a moist, trembling jaw tucked itself close to the crook of his neck.

The fingers of John's uninjured hand came up to lightly stroke back the younger man's hair, and he turned his head slightly to murmur against the consulting detective's ear, "Sherlock?"

The muscles of Sherlock's jaw clenched, but a tiny kiss brushed against John's skin.

Turning to press his nose to Sherlock's hair and hoping the smile he felt twitching his lips wasn't noticeable, the doctor released a soft sigh into the dark, awry curls, "It's fine, Sherlock. It's _all _fine."

_End Chapter_


	3. Embers

_**Disclaimer:**_ I own nothing in this marvelous universe; it all belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss, and Steven Moffat.

_**Reviewers: **_All _12_ of you, thank you!

_**Author's Note:**_ Last chapter (well, except the epilogue)! I have thoroughly enjoyed writing this story—I hope you have enjoyed reading it, and that this final chapter is just as good as the previous two! Please enjoy ::grins::.

_**Rating: **_T/M (for darker issues)

_**Summary:**_ Sherlock's first arson case after the Hiatus results in an injured John and some hard truths for Sergeant Sally Donovan…(Intense Friendshipfic. Post-Reichenbach Reunion.)

"_**Speech"**_

_**Personal Thoughts/Memories (Italics)**_

_.:Intermezzo: Inferno:._

_By Sentimental Star_

**Embers**

IOIOIOIOIOI

_**embers:**__ (1) __the smoldering remains of a fire; __(2) __slowly dying or fading emotions, memories, ideas, or responses still capable of being revived_

IOIOIOIOIOI

Naturally, when DI Gregory Lestrade found his second-in-command sitting in the back of a very much _empty_ ambulance, choking back tears and unsuccessfully suppressing several wet scoffs, he assumed the worst, "What the hell did you say to him _this_ time?"

Sally Donovan's head snapped up, her red-rimmed, puffy eyes glaring up at him furiously, "Why the hell do you assume _I _had anything to do with it?!"

Sighing, Lestrade scrubbed a hand over his face, "When haven't you?" he grumbled.

"It's not _my_ fault Sherlock's a pretentious arse!"

Their relationship had been contentious at best ever since he'd been reinstated in his former position as the head of the homicide division. Sometimes he missed the relationship they'd once head—the easy reliability and give-take that made them work so well as a team—then he remembered what she'd done to Sherlock, and wondered why he'd come back at—

"Wait," his head jerked up and he blinked at her incredulously, "Did you just say…you said _'Sherlock'…_?"

Color flew into Sally's cheeks. Snarling softly, she turned away, scrubbing furiously at her eyes. "Ask _them_," she muttered through clenched teeth, jerking her chin at the two forms that suddenly resolved themselves out of the shadows.

John Watson pulled to a halt, raising an eyebrow. Lestrade noticed he had unerringly placed a hand against the small of Sherlock's back, seemingly in no hurry to remove it.

That told the DI more about this situation than it didn't.

With a groan, he turned to face the two most infuriating men he had ever had the pleasure of working with, and that included Mycroft Holmes, "Sherlock, John, clarification, please."

John surveyed both DI and DS mildly, "The Sergeant and I had a…disagreement…about a few things," his hand shifted to squeeze gently at Sherlock's hip, leaving Lestrade little doubt as to what those 'things' had been about. Solidly, he met the older man's eyes, "Don't ask me to take it back, Greg. I won't."

Pinching the bridge of his nose and releasing another sigh, Lestrade opened his mouth to assure John that no, indeed, he would never have bothered…when a scuffle across concrete interrupted him.

IOIOIOIOIOI

Sherlock saw the hand swing out before John did, and reacted on instinct.

Immediately, he swept the doctor behind him and stepped out into the oncoming blow's path, receiving a livid red handprint across his cheek for all his pains. He swiftly pressed a hand to it, wincing against the sudden burn, "_Ow_," he murmured.

The slap seemed to vibrate throughout the silent clearing around the ambulance. Without looking, Sherlock knew John was gaping at his back. In front of him, Sergeant Donovan looked just as stunned, if not more so, than the man behind him, whilst beside him, Lestrade seemed torn between lunging to restrain his DS, diving for the first aid kit, and demanding an explanation from John.

"That hurt," he mumbled, prodding gingerly at the mark Sally had left.

As if that were some sort of catalyst, everything erupted: one-handed, John grabbed the back of Sherlock's head, gently jerking him around and down for a thorough examination. Lestrade plowed into the ambulance, searching for the medical kit. And Sergeant Donovan, her face white with shock, lifted a hand to her mouth, tears springing up anew.

"You _idiot_!" John whispered harshly, once his examination was through. He yanked Sherlock's forehead down to eye level, pressing a kiss squarely to it with his lips.

Coloring so deeply red the handprint all but disappeared, the consulting detective managed, "_John_?"

Shaking his head, John unwrapped his hand from around Sherlock's neck and accepted the compress from Lestrade, immediately pressing it to the detective's injured cheek.

Hissing at the unexpected cold, Sherlock backed up a few steps. "John?" he repeated, a hand coming up to hold the pack in place.

(That he'd covered John's hand in the process was inconsequential.)

"You bloody ass," John murmured unsteadily, adjusting his grip underneath Sherlock's palm with fingers that shook, "what on earth possessed you?"

Straightening with a wince, Sherlock gave as honest an answer as he could manage, "You did. Obviously."

_Finale (Save the Epilogue!)_


	4. Epilogue, A Deux

_**Disclaimer:**_ I own nothing in this marvelous universe; it all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the makers of BBC _Sherlock_.

_**Rating:**_ T (darker issues, language)

_**Author's Note:**_ Here's the epilogue—don't worry, NO SPOILERS (even though I gave into my impatience and excitement and watched S03X1—_so _going be posting some fic based off of it at some point). At the moment, though, I wanted to get this to all you lovely people ::grins::-it's gone through some major revisions over the course of its life, and I'm still not sure if this is 100 percent what I was trying to express, but it certainly came close! Please enjoy!

_**Summary:**_ Sherlock's first arson case after the Hiatus results in an injured John and some hard truths for Sergeant Sally Donovan…(Intense Friendshipfic. Post-Reichenbach Reunion.)

"_**Speech"**_

_**Personal Thoughts/Memories (Italics)**_

_.:Intermezzo: Inferno:._

**Epilogue: À Deux**

(NSY Headquarters, Two Hours Later)

"Sally, what the hell were you _thinking_?"

Holmes and Doctor John had long since left for home. With his usual aplomb, but far less dramatics than Sally (and Lestrade, truthfully) had been expecting, Holmes had outlined the conclusion of the case: their perpetrator had apparently been a dissatisfied employee of the firm that had just blown up, on the fast track to a pink slip. He'd decided that if he could not retain his job, then no one would. So he had stockpiled dynamite, and blown the place sky high.

She had not stuck around to find out more than that—not the why, not the how, shaken to her core by the exchange that had taken only moments to culminate between herself and Sherlock Holmes. Favoring discretion and professionalism over confrontation, her DI had not sought her out until now.

"Did it ever even _occur_ to you that Sherlock is _not_ the same man you remember?"

Yes, it had. In the most painfully transparent way possible. He had deliberately stepped into a blow aimed for his partner, after all.

It just had not occurred to her that three years ago he would have done the same thing. _Had_, in fact.

"He jumped off a bloody, thrice-damned _building_ to save John, to save _me_!"

And his landlady, she remembered.

"Do you honestly think a _sociopath_ would have done all of those things? A man without a _heart_?"

No, _heroes _and _angels _did things like that—not ordinary men, and _certainly _not sociopaths (self-diagnosed though they may be).

It had only taken Sally three years and any number of months to realize it

"Then you hauled off and _slapped_ him, because you couldn't see the _difference_? Jesus Christ, no _wonder_ John refused to apologize!"

Unlike what her DI thought, she had not aimed her slap at Holmes, but at Doctor John—_not _because of what he'd told Lestrade over half an hour ago (God, had it really taken so little time?). Nor because of their somewhat-more-than-mediocre tiff, but because she had invaded their little private bubble and heard far more than she ever expected to, from _both _of them.

"Of all the _absurd _reasons…!" Lestrade had worked himself into a fine temper by now, its anger moderated by the deeply-seated concern she heard brimming just below the surface.

Not for her. Oh, no. She had lost that privilege the moment she had decided to, as Doctor John had put it, _hunt_ a man whose only crime against humanity was his inability to understand it.

"You do realize John may never forgive you for this? For that matter, _I_ may never forgive you for this…!"

She had been wrong. Oh, God, she had been _so_ wrong.

IOIOIOIOIOI

(221B Baker Street, Two Hours Later)

The tiptoeing of violin strings filled the air of 221B's parlor, disrupting the hush of silence that had filled it upon its occupants' return.

It reached John's ears where he stood now in the kitchen, wrestling one-handed with the tea kettle, and tumbled warmly in and between their channels, interweaving with a massive burst of memory:

"I know that song, don't I?" he called into the room beyond, over the kettle's whistle. "It's the same one you played when…"

His throat closed up almost immediately, remembered heat and tightness welling up in his chest. It hadn't lessened any since the day he'd come home early from the A & E to find Sherlock standing in front of their parlor's windows, launching himself again and again through the same sequence of notes; if anything, it had only grown. A memory of what he had thought lost forever proving itself no longer a memory.

It had not become easier with repetition, and John hoped it never would. He did not ever want to lose this again.

He barely heard Sherlock's assent over a piercing burst of steam from the tea kettle.

Swallowing hard, he continued, raising his voice slightly to be heard, "Who wrote it?"

"I did."

"Did you?" John mused, managing to pour two steaming cups of tea with minimal damage to either himself or Mrs. Hudson's china.

"You sound surprised."

John jumped, nearly slamming the kettle back on its hob. "S-_Sherlock_!" he sputtered, whipping around as best he could with a wounded limb. (_When_ had the consulting detective _moved_?)

Where he stood in the doorway, violin and bow in one hand, the taller man raised an eyebrow. "Are you all right?" asked softly.

Struggling to wrestle his pounding heart back into submission, John swallowed again and waved his good hand at the detective, "Fine, fine. Just warn me next time, yeah? I _do_ have a broken wrist, you know."

"I doubt I'd be able to forget," Sherlock murmured, slipping into the kitchen and deftly removing his cup from John's grip before the doctor could even try to lift it.

John scowled, "I'm not _incapacitated_, you know, just _injured_."

An amused snort was all the answer he received as Sherlock added two lumps of sugar to his tea, "They're right, then."

At the distracted _"hmm"_ from John (who was pouring creamer into his own), Sherlock smirked, hitching his violin underneath his arm, "Doctors really _do _make the worst patients."

By the time John snapped his head up with an outraged, "_Sherlock_!" the consulting detective had already disappeared out the door.

IOIOIOIOIOI

When he emerged from the kitchen a few minutes later, John found his best friend seated on their couch, delicately balancing his violin on his knee and sipping tea around what was almost certainly a small grin.

Glowering at him, John moved to take a seat in his armchair, but a slight tinkle of china drew him up short. A glance at Sherlock revealed he had placed his teacup back on the coffee table.

"Warsaw."

John startled, and nearly dropped the teacup he'd been holding, intending to set it down next to Sherlock's. "_What_?" he managed, half-gasping.

Sherlock brought his instrument back up to his chin and briefly bowed the strings, wincing as he shifted his jaw to better accommodate it. "Earlier. You asked me where I had learned triage. It was in Warsaw…"

Half-frowning, more than a little intrigued by the tale, but determined to assess how badly Sherlock's cheek would bruise, John cautiously deposited his teacup on the coffee table, and sat down beside his flat mate on the sofa.

When his fingertips gently brushed the detective's purpling cheek, Sherlock flinched.

"I'm sorry," John whispered, swiftly withdrawing his hand. Or trying to, at least.

After the initial wince, Sherlock lightly grabbed his fingers and pressed the older man's palm firmly to his cheek, inclining his head into his doctor's careful touch, "Not your fault."

John smiled humorlessly, "I can't help but think a very great deal of this is my fault, Sherlock. If I hadn't upset her-"

"—She would have slapped me just the same. I do believe I have rather turned her world on end."

Sighing and carefully removing his hand, John shook his head. "She's not the only one," muttered.

Intrigued, the detective raised an eyebrow. With a small grin, the doctor leaned his left knee and most of his left side into Sherlock, conscious of his broken wrist. "Tell me about Warsaw," he requested instead, voice soft.

Not really able to conceal the smile forming around his pout, Sherlock began. Audience was the frailty of genius, after all.

_Finale __à__ Deux_


End file.
